


Chancellor, A Word if I May?

by Darth_Videtur



Series: Breaking the Future to His Hand [17]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: Rise of Empire Era - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Ambush, F/M, Padme can't get him off her mind, Political Power Couple, Sexual Tension, if only..., locker room fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-06-10 01:30:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6932392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darth_Videtur/pseuds/Darth_Videtur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After getting caught up in a Sith ritual and blissfully unaware of it, Padme finds that she is enjoying the fallout more than she ever thought she could. Palpatine is bound to be surprised with the unintended results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Three days later, Padmé Amidala is ready to scream.

 

Really, just scream.

 

It isn’t dignified, and it’s not what any Senator should ever think of doing, but Padmé is finding it very difficult to care.

 

She can’t get him out of her mind, and she can’t forget his scent. When they pass each other in the hallways of the Senate building, she barely contains the high blush that threatens to wash over her delicate cheekbones. He rarely looks at her, as though he is trying to purposefully give them some distance. She appreciates his efforts, but it doesn’t matter.

 

Just yesterday, when he had looked up from dictating a message to Vice Chair Amedda and their eyes met by chance, his pale blue gaze had jolted her with a physical shock, something like lightning trickling down to her core, and Padmé realized that she wanted him again.

 

She has been denying it constantly under her breath since then. There are a thousand reasons to do so. Anakin is coming back from the front very soon, she found out just recently. The Chancellor can’t afford a scandal at this crucial time. She is married. Married! Besides, the Chancellor knows it was a mistake, he apologized to her and was clearly ashamed of their actions. He hides his emotions better than she can, but she knows he feels guilty for betraying Anakin. Her husband is important to him, and a dear friend.

 

Guilt burdens her too. Strong, young Anakin, faithful and adoring, and she broke in a moment of weakness. Padmé wonders if she can ever bring herself to tell him the truth, to admit what she has done, but if she does his friendship with the Chancellor will be forever ruined. She won’t take another mentor from him. Anakin would be crushed, and who knew what he might do in his rage.

 

That Palpatine even knew about their marriage was shocking, and Padmé wonders if Anakin had told the older Naboo. She imagines the level of trust between them, the nightmare that will descend if she tells Anakin…

 

So she will keep it a secret and stay the course. Should be easy enough.

 

But all she can think about is that silky voice purring in her ear, promising pleasure like she has never experienced before. Padmé shakes her head to clear her mind and tries to refocus on the refugee bill being discussed in the Senate today. Across the chamber, Mon Mothma offers her a curious and sympathetic look. Padmé carefully nods back, drawing down the veil of her political blank-slate expression.

 

She tries to berate herself. Normally, this matter would be at the foremost of her mind and attention. If Padmé feels anything but disgust for this pointless war and sorrow for her broken Republic, she feels pity for the innocent people caught up in the wave of chaos.  

 

She watches one of the speaking humanoids wave his long hand, and she suddenly imagines dexterous fingers setting her weak flesh aflame with desire. Padmé sucks in a sharp breath as her skin tingles with the unbidden memories. Memories… not fantasy. She knows exactly what those fingers can do, the ones currently wrapped loosely around the railing of the Chancellor’s fixed pod. Her eyes drift to them, then up the fine robes to the genial thin face and sympathetic eyes now observing the speakers.

 

She shivers at the memory of those eyes landing on her in his office, sparking with suppressed desire as she came undone on his desk. She bites her lip at the memory of his body under hers, surprisingly hard and supple and so… satisfying. Padmé jerks her eyes away from him before she remembers too much and loses her resolve. She knows she fights a battle stacked against her. The Chancellor doesn’t appear to notice her at all in this session, studiously avoiding Naboo’s pod area.

 

When the session finally ends, Padmé is both grateful and more desperate than before. She can’t deny it any longer: she wants him again. She wants to taste him and touch him, and she wants him to take her. The thought is all-consuming, alarming, delicious.

 

When she spies him descending to the lower levels of the Senate building in the company of several Senators, she nonchalantly follows at a safe distance. Padmé tells herself she needs to speak with him about the refugees, to make him see that Naboo is in a perfect position to offer assistance at this time. After all, he is Naboo too, a noble of their planet and the former senator, and she owes it to him to keep him informed.

 

As Padmé follows, she realizes that for being Naboo, he doesn’t really dress like it anymore. His robes are sleeker and darker, his hair shorter and more severely cut than his wavy locks ten years ago. Padmé knows he has to look presentable to the rest of the galaxy, that he must appeal to more than his home planet now. In a way, he looks more serious now, more dangerous. He has to, standing in front of a pack of wild anoobas like the Senate.

 

At least his mannerisms and speech patterns still carry traces of his heritage, and she loves to watch them surface in the small things he does, the motions he makes with his hands and body, the words he chooses to use. Oh, and when he spoke to her in Naboo before they made love… she blushes. Anakin, bless his clumsy tongue, butchers her native language whenever he tries. Clovis never even tried.

 

Palpatine breathes it with natural grace.

 

Padmé hesitates when she sees the Chancellor and the other Senators, all humans, turn aside into the locker rooms adjacent to the Senate gymnasium. Padmé has used the exercise equipment before, often with Mon Mothma and her other Senate friends. The gymnasium is large and expansive, with whole portions often going unused since most Senators are rich enough to afford their own recreation.

 

She knows Palpatine never uses the gymnasium. Doubtless, he has only entered to finish the conversation and will emerge again soon, victorious in whatever political mission he has undertaken. A wicked thought creeps into her mind and suggests an idea.

 

Padmé sucks in a sharp breath and nervously locks her fingers together. Stop it, she tells her mind, and it only screams louder. Before she is quite aware of herself, her legs are carrying her forward toward the locker room door.

 

She needs to tell him about Naboo.


	2. Aggressive Negotiations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Padmé takes charge.

Padmé slips through the wide doors, and they hiss shut behind her with a sense of finality. She is in too far to turn back now, she rationalizes even as the long hallway stretches out in front of her. Off to each side lie multiple sanitation units, both private and communal. She can hear the whine of machinery, the distant chatter of boisterous government workers, senators or staffers or something, an occasional raucous laugh, the irritating buzz of a holo gameshow.

 

The sounds flood her senses until she spies the tell-tale red of Palpatine’s personal bodyguards up ahead, tending the door to a communal steam room. For a moment, Padmé thinks that Palpatine is actually going to partake of the baths, but then she spies him stepping out of the doors, still fully dressed and smiling strangely.

 

He turns and finds her standing in the middle of the hallway like a lovestruck fool, and the smile slides away to be replaced with inquisitive caution. He waves his guards back and moves her direction. She admires him, so graceful, and then drops her gaze in embarrassment when she realizes what she is doing. One is not supposed to _ogle_ the Chancellor.

 

He stops a meter away and offers a courtly half-bow, out of place in this environment and yet so like him, so genteel, that she smiles automatically.

 

“Senator Amidala,” he says quietly. “I did not expect to find you here, of all places.”

 

Turnabout is fair play, she decides and raises both eyebrows flirtatiously. “Nor you, Chancellor Palpatine. I had no idea you used the gymnasium, though I might have suspected.”

 

“Only business, not pleasure,” he chuckles, refusing to take her bait or unaware of it. “Unfortunately.”

 

“Why not both?” she blurts before she can stop herself.

 

His open expression shuts down, instantly. “M’lady, I thought we had discussed this…”

 

She lowers her voice. “I know, Chancellor. I only wanted to speak with you about Naboo’s role in the refugee crisis.”

 

Palpatine watches her for a grim, analytical moment before his eyes soften and she is reminded of him long ago, when she was a young beginner in the terrifying field of politics. Does he still believe he must protect her? She wants him to see her as more than a naïve young woman. She wants his respect as an equal, and although the memory of their impulsive coupling brings heat to her cheeks and the realization that he can desire her like any other man, that they are equal to the task of physical passion, she wants more.

 

She wants him to understand her ideas, to agree with her point of view.  And she wants him to fuck her. Like an animal.

 

Padmé clears her throat, fighting a hot blush. “You know when I was Queen, I supported funding a refugee program of our own.”

 

Palpatine nods. “Yes, a measure that has allowed many Naboo to fully resettle since the occupation and recover much of their former lives. It was well done, m’lady.”

 

She feels the glow deep in her chest, the glow that always surfaces when he commends her, and she has to fight to keep from smiling like a pleased child. She is an adult now, far old enough and experienced enough to need no one’s support. Padmé settles for a gentle nod of her own, subconsciously mimicking his posture. “Well, we’ve had a surplus of funds for nearly seven years now, and I believe Naboo is in a unique position to help this situation.”

 

Palpatine is not surprised, and he hardly ever is, not with her. He knows her too well. “Do you feel Naboo is sufficiently recovered to offer consistent support, Senator? You know our resources were severely taxed.”

 

Padmé looks down the long hallway at the guards and distant figures of other senators and diplomats entering and leaving the gymnasium. She is Naboo, and airing Naboo’s personal matters in front of others has always made her uncomfortable. Palpatine seems to sense her discomfort and motions to the exit. “Shall we continue this conversation elsewhere, Senator?”

 

She knows he shares her sense of privacy. He keeps his own life tightly locked away along with his emotions and deepest thoughts. She wants to uncover them as much she can, this mysterious man that is setting her body aflame. Padmé realizes her chance has come, and she seizes it.

 

“This should only take a minute, Chancellor,” she says innocently. “Perhaps we can just step aside a moment…” She looks at the nearest door and motions to it.

 

Palpatine watches her for the briefest of seconds, pale eyes narrowing as though he suspects a trap, and then he nods and waits for her to move first.

 

Padmé sucks in a shaky breath, fully aware of what she intends, fully aware that this is madness and she can’t turn back. But she _wants_ it more than she can even understand. And in her darkest parts, she is looking forward to taking control of the situation.

 

So she straightens and walks to the entrance, willing her hips to sway a bit and not look behind her to see if he notices. She hears the soft padding of his boots as they enter the room and the door slides shut behind them. Looking around, Padmé realizes they have entered a communal sanitation floor, lined with  low-walled shower stalls and still a hint steamy from previous occupants.

 

No one else is in here right now. Perfect.

 

How to do this, Padmé wonders. Seducing Palpatine cannot be anything like seducing Anakin. Anakin is all nerve endings and physical touch and joyous intermingling. Politics and social status disappear, and they are simply Man and Woman when they are together. She forces herself to stop thinking about him, the shame of her actions driving her deeper into the room. Anakin isn’t here right now; he can’t satisfy the neediness she feels right now.

 

Palpatine is heady and intellectual. He is nobility, but he acts with more royalty than she does sometimes. She can’t imagine just reaching out and grabbing him (oh, but she can too easily and she wants to).    

 

She turns to face him, and finds him leaning almost casually on the low wall of the first shower stall. “I think we owe it to the refugees, Chancellor, to offer our assistance. You and I, we’ve always stood for doing the right thing, no matter how unpopular. We can stand together again.”

 

“Our people are intensely private and traditional, m’lady,” he hesitates delicately. “Sharing our planet with unfamiliar and unregistered individuals numbering in the millions will certainly be met with reservations by the establishment and many common people.”

 

Padmé sighs. He is right, always so right. “Then we show them how to be different. We show them how to be open.”

 

“We?” Palpatine asks.

 

Carefully lowering her voice to a tone that simply isn’t _proper_ , Padmé says, “You and I, Chancellor. Together.”

 

He takes her words in without reacting, and she’s not sure if he has caught the double-meaning.

 

She pushes him a little. “We’ve worked together before, Chancellor. Very _effectively…_ ” Willing him to understand, she takes a few steps in his direction. “I always enjoy the opportunity.”

 

“As I do,” he finally replies, ponderously.

 

She reaches him and hesitates. “I will need your full support.”

 

“Have I often withheld it from you?”

 

Padmé grins. “Too often for my tastes. We've had our differences before.” She can feel his body heat, or maybe she only imagines it. But the effect is the same, driving her hormones into a frenzy that she can barely control. “In this venture, Chancellor Palpatine, I need you completely.”

 

“Perhaps you already have me, Senator Amidala,” he says with a strange smile.

 

Now. _Now do it_ … “I already did,” she whispers. “Once. I would like you again.”

 

He knows they aren’t talking about Naboo anymore, his lips thinning with the beginning of a protest, but Padmé moves faster than he can talk. Both of her hands stretch out of their own accord and pull his head down to hers for a kiss. Their lips meet and something like lightning trickles into her skin. The moment electrifies.

 

Palpatine is frozen under her in the same space of time, and then he begins to warm, his own slender hands dropping to her waist and settling there. The sounds from the hallway fade away, and Padmé only knows the keen desire building between her legs, the first brush of wetness. They break the kiss simultaneously with twin gasps for air.

 

She gradually becomes aware that her hands are pulling at his outer robes, that she has managed to slide them off his wiry shoulders to the floor, that he is doing the same to her at a slower pace. So many layers… When his hands dislodge her final layer of robes, leaving her in her undergarments, she startles awake to their surroundings.

 

“Private negotiations…” she mutters even as she tugs his undershirt loose and reveals the length of his torso. For a moment, she is surprised. He is in far better shape physically than she ever suspected for a man of his age. His age shows, but in few places, softer skin, a thin frame, but his corded muscles look firm and powerful. She can’t find any fatness on him, only a thin trail of slightly red, whitening hairs traveling down from his navel and disappearing beyond the line of his trousers.

 

“Chancellor, you’ve taken care of yourself” she says with a note of wonder, wondering why he hid himself away in their first joining, and he smirks down at her, his own gaze raking boldly down her body.

 

“Privacy doesn’t appear to be a major concern of yours at the moment, Senator.”

 

Padmé blushes. “It isn’t anymore. But I’m not entirely comfortable out in the open like this.”

 

He chuckles. “How very Naboo of you.”

 

She doesn’t answer, reaching out for his hands and pulling him sideways into the nearest shower stall. Their heads and shoulders are still exposed to anyone walking in, but the thought sends a tendril of pleasurable fear rushing down her spine to pool in her abdomen.

 

She doesn’t want it to stop. “Will your guards watch the door?” she asks, breathless, and he laughs.

 

“We’ll be fortunate if my guards do not follow us in, Padmé.”

 

The heat slithering into that low baritone is too much. She leans in to kiss him again, but he avoids it at the last minute, his hands rising to her shoulders and backing her deeper into the stall.

 

“Kriff,” Padmé utters when his hands slide down her sides and she arches against him. She yelps a little when he pushes her to the wall and the handle of the shower unit digs into her lower back, forcing her hips up against his. “Oh fucking hells…” His mouth descends over hers and cuts off the needy cry. She wants to taste him again, and he opens under her probing tongue. He tastes like fine wine, like the Senate and wild desire and shadows.

 

“Hm,” he finally pulls away from the kiss and purrs down at her, “Such filthy language, Senator.”

 

“You bring it out in me,” she admits and watches him raise both eyebrows in thinly veiled amusement. “I normally never say things like that.”

 

Palpatine’s eyes spark at her. “And that is why you came here, is it not? You are a naughty senator indeed..”

 

His soft taunt reawakens the monster inside, the monster craving hot contact and moist lips and more and Padmé can barely think. She reaches out to catch him by his waist and smiles up at him. He isn’t nearly as tall as Anakin, and she likes not having to crane her neck back. He seems captivated by her expression and curious all at once. She moves in for the kill.

 

“That’s why I chased you down,” she corrects softly. “And you think you’re so proper. Well, Chancellor, I happen to know you’re _not_.” She feels wild, dirty, untamed throwing his words back at him. She loves it. “You liked what happened before.”

 

His breath catches, just the barest hint of surprise before his lips curl in a faint smile. No one else would be able to tell, but she senses it through a connection they share in this moment. Illicit lovers, hypersensitive to every intake, every twitch of unfamiliar muscles.

 

She tips her head up and breathes hot air into his mouth, curving her pouting lips over his thin ones and sealing the distance between them again. For a moment, she doesn’t plan to ever let go, and they battle briefly for dominance before he willingly caves in. Emboldened, Padmé lowers her hands to his chest and pushes him back against the adjoining low wall of the shower unit, reversing their positions in an instant.  

 

He looks like a satisfied Nexu, thin and wiry and almost grinning at the way her hands desperately travel down his narrow torso to tug at the shaak-leather belt around his hips. Padmé realizes that he thinks he is in control, and the thought stops her short. She smiles back and traces her fingertips back up, across his abdominal muscles, teasing over the tips of his pale nipples. His silky skin shivers under her feather touch, like a flighty gualama at the touch of the master’s hand.  

 

She remembers the way he teased her so relentlessly until she was writhing in his grip, and she wants him to feel the same madness. Padmé lifts her eyes to his and sees hooded desire in the pale depths, and arrogant confidence. He expects her to give in.

 

He should know better.

 

She smiles wider and passes her hands over the front of his trousers, barely ghosting over the soft material, and his eyes close briefly. He likes it, she thrills. He likes it and he is letting her do this... _Palpatine_ is letting her touch him. She wonders if anyone else has ever touched him like this, he seems so aloof and alone most of the time, like he is above mere physical lusts…

 

Licking her lips, she leans in and whispers into his ear, “You’re naughty too, Chancellor. Dirty. I think maybe someone should clean you up.”

 

He swallows, the movement sharp and jerky, the smile replaced with questioning amusement. “Who do you have in mind?”

 

Padmé feels the power of her control down to her core, alighting a sharp flame that guides her hands to his belt buckle. “I have someone in mind,” she whispers as she pulls it loose and drops the belt to the cool floor. The metallic clack of the buckle striking the tiles startles them both, and she feels him flinch under her warm palms. She shudders too, but for a different reason.

 

She nearly reaches for his trousers, but remembers at the last second that she is in control, not him. This is her chance to impress him, to undo him like he undid her. She kisses him again, slow and lingering this time, and she catches his thin lower lip between her teeth and gently tugs.

 

The sound he makes is deep, vibrating through her bones, not nearly a moan and not quite a growl. By all the gods of Naboo, she wants him moaning only for her. Padmé ties down her fluttering heart before it can escape her chest and presses her body fully against his, letting him register the intoxicating sensation of her smooth skin against his, her heart beating, _thudding,_  against his. The room fades into the background, everything except him. Only he matters now…

 

His breath loses the regular cadence, hitching in his throat when her left hand drops to his trousers and offers the barest pressure. “Padmé,” he hisses. “Are you quite sure about this?” She presses harder. “Padmé…”

 

Her name. On his lips. He isn’t lecturing her. He isn’t guiding her. He’s close to begging for her.

 

Fire courses down her spine, fire to both shame her and ignite her body.  


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Padmé starts to lose control, if she ever had it to begin with.

For a long moment, Padmé rests against her former mentor, allowing her mind to absorb the startling feel of Palpatine’s lean body flush against hers. He always wore such thick robes, so many layers, always so prim and proper and never even a hint of a scandal, to the point that his sexuality or lack thereof was a favorite topic of Naboo’s tabloids, which Padmé never read except once or twice with her sister Sola, and then they only giggled together over the absurdness of it all. She remembers Sola teasing her over her starry eyed admiration of the Naboo Senator.

 

She remembers the fresh blushing even now. Silly teasing aside, she has never dreamed until recently what might lie underneath all those opulent layers, and she certainly isn’t disappointed to find out.

 

The locker room is quiet, something metallic pinging softly in the distance, murmuring voices from far away. The Red Guard has not followed them in, and Padmé doubts they actually will, so emboldened, she caresses him through his trousers, admiring the way he is finally responding to her touch, proud of herself for the power she has over him in this surreal moment.

 

Padmé smiles when she feels him hardening under her teasing, barely touching fingertips, and the rush nearly makes her head spin when she basks in the thought that she has the Supreme Chancellor backed into a Senate gymnasium shower stall, that she is making him – she glances up under hooded eyes to gauge his reaction – that she is making his eyes close, his breath quicken. She watches, fascinated, when he licks thin dry lips in an almost nervous fashion.

 

She can’t help it; she taunts him, like he taunted her. “You like that, Chancellor?”

 

His blue eyes flash open, just a bit, and they look more grey now, paler, stormy with a pinch of electrifying arousal, and if she weren’t determined to be the one in charge today, Padmé might even be a bit alarmed, but she isn’t because she has faced down the entire Senate before without flinching. One man’s searing gaze will not weaken her resolve.

 

It does send a wave of weakness through her knees though, her thighs clenching together when she registers the heated promise. How can ice be fire? It’s entirely wrong… and endlessly erotic, and she wants more. She wants more than a mentor and dear old friend, she wants more than years of valuable advice and familial-like protection.

 

She wants his hands on her hips and his cock in her core.

 

She flushes as the thoughts drip into her mind like corrupted raindrops on a clear pond.

 

He is still looking at her as through stripping away more than her clothing, as though stripping away the distance to her very soul. Padmé jumps a little when one of his hands rises and slender fingers trace over her cheeks. A feather touch. A fire leaping from his skin to hers, and hers to his, consuming the words she tries to force between her teeth. So she presses longingly against him instead.

 

Palpatine smiles, a lopsided affair that more readily belongs on an a swaggering smuggler, and Padmé nearly gives in to the urge to throw herself on his body, teasing forgotten. At the last minute she pulls the mask of her royalty in place and manages to put a little distance again between their lips. “Nexu has your tongue, Chancellor?” she whispers.

 

She pushes his hands away, mask breaking and grinning in warning when he reaches for the ties of her undergarments. “Not yet,” she smirks up at him, watching the denial flash in his eyes. For a moment, she is frozen in that look, and then she can move again, pushing his hands down to rest them against the shower’s wall. “Stay. I’m not done here.”

 

Palpatine smirks and obediently stills, drawling with supreme confidence, “Is that so, m’lady?”

 

“You’ll find out soon enough,” she purrs, raising her hands to the back of his head and pulling him down into a tangled kiss. He doesn’t touch her, just leans into the kiss a little and nips at her full lips, and Padmé gasps with delight when she feels his tongue dancing playfully with hers.

 

It’s too much, fast overwhelming, and she pulls away for air like a drowning woman. He remains leaning against the shower wall, expression radiating with smug satisfaction, and Padmé catches her breath. He won’t win this, not this time, even if she’s close to begging for him herself.

 

She thinks desperately of procedures, bureaucracy, the grotesque Orn Free Taa, and the sobering thoughts bring her back from the edge of that devilish smile long enough to push him gently against the wall and reach for the ties of his trousers. Palpatine watches her work with glittering eyes, a soft chuckle when her hands fumble clumsily over the top catch.

  
She pauses and glares up at him, but there is no true anger, only raw desire. He nearly surges up from the wall – she can feel his abdominal muscles tensing abruptly under her left hand – and then he forces himself to relax with the effortless and rigid self-control he always possesses, control she has admired for years and never had the courage to comment on.

 

She feels his taut body loosen, strokes her index finger over the thin trail of soft whitening hairs starting just under his navel. Is it her imagination, or does he shiver a little? Padmé takes a wavering breath and slips her fingers under the edge of his troublesome clothing, looking up and watching his face for any sign of resistance, any concern as she slides lower and lower. So slow, so easy.

 

Palpatine has closed his eyes and tilted his head slightly back with a dragging sigh, and Padmé thrills to the sight. She’s got him, and then she’s _got_ him, and Padmé flushes bright red when her hand encounters his stirring excitement. Feeling for a moment along the top and base, Padmé marvels at the silky hardness, like Anakin’s and yet different somehow.

 

Definitely more illicit. She can’t stop the shudder running through deep to her core when he suddenly shifts his hips as though uncomfortable.

 

“You’re not getting out of this,” she whispers at last, pulling her hand free and focusing on the ties, and finally she manages to get them undone, though she pauses before tugging them down. “Stay right where you are, Chancellor.”

 

He looks at her, one silvery red eyebrow arched in amusement. “Is that an order, Your Majesty?”

 

His play on her former title drives her wild. Padmé can’t help it; a deep part of her loves the memory of being Queen, of leading her people to victory against the corrupt Trade Federation and a dozen more enemies in the years of her subsequent reign. She has always loved fighting evil institutions; it’s what she lives for.

 

Except right now… Right now she’s living for the power she holds over this most powerful of men. This man who calls her his queen, and she is, rightfully so. She looks back at him and draws on her memory of form and structure, and the Queen flows through her veins along with the fire. “Need we make it so?”

 

He stares at her for a long moment, then lowers his eyes deferentially. “Whatever you wish, Your Majesty.” Padmé nearly forgets how to breathe.

 

It’s like he’s reading her mind.

 

“Yes…” she curls her fingers into the band of his trousers. “Yes… we wish it so.” And suddenly a positively evil thought trickles past the last of her defenses, not that they really matter anymore, and she lets the idea twist her lips into smug triumph. “And what’s more, we think you should be a gentleman and not find your pleasure before your Queen does.”

 

His eyes widen slightly, and Padmé almost panics, thinking she has finally gone too far and now she will lose him for this. Belatedly, she realizes Anakin readily responds to her dominance, but Palpatine is a grand ruler in his own way… eloquent, elevated. Will he take this as a personal insult?

 

But finally he returns a quirked, sly smile, “Come what may?”

 

She feels a shiver tearing down her spine at his double entendre and subdues it deep below her unflappable surface. She manages a sultry – she hopes! – nod. “We would expect nothing less of our loyal subjects.”

 

Palpatine almost reaches out and touches her, but stops at the last moment, hand hovering over her throat. Padmé swallows, her throat centimeters from his fingers, and the air hangs heavy between them. The atmosphere is crackling with an unknown energy.

 

“I shall endeavor to uphold your desire then,” he hisses with a flash of white teeth.

 

Padmé gives him the same smile and slides her hands down his hips, pulling the trousers down as she glances down the smooth plane of his chest and lower still as he is freed.

 

She freezes with delight.

 

This may not be the first she has felt him, but it is the first time she has seen him, and she is not disappointed. Not at all. What he refused to let her see before is straight and strong, already half hard and well sculpted. She runs the pads of her fingers wonderingly over the exposed tip and hears a faint sound from him, something like surprise and satisfaction all at once.

 

She never dreamed she could pull a sound like that from the unreachable and aloof Sheev Palpatine…

 

Padmé studies it, calculating its size, and she realizes that his thickness is manageable but his length is likely to be impressive. She remembers his length driving into her, sinking so deep to leave her breathless, and she shudders with blatant longing. She wants to hold it, so she does, wrapping her left hand gently around his warmth and applying just a hint of pressure, and she can’t help but glance at his face to see his reaction.  

 

Palpatine is looking straight ahead, face a mask of concentration except that he has pulled his thin lower lip between his teeth, biting it loosely; his hands are flattened against the shower wall.

 

A flush of wetness floods her between her legs and leaves her knees weak. Padmé gasps, almost losing her balance as she leans against him. Her hand tightens, and he grunts softly. She reaches the edge of apologizing and stops, pressing her lips close together. No… a Queen does not apologize – she takes.

 

She slides her hand down his length, tugging him playfully. His answer is a faint upward buck of his narrow hips before he falls back.

 

“You like that?” she whispers, pulling their heads close together with her free hand.

 

“You are full of surprises, Senator Amidala,” evasive as ever, he sighs into her ear. “Determined, and headstrong.”

 

She pulls back slightly to look into his eyes, and finds there a strange light, an indescribable emotion. It sets her core to quivering. She manages to murmur, “I learned from an old friend, Chancellor.” Then she allows her eyes to spark with mischievous disapproval. “And it’s Your Majesty, or have you forgotten already?”

 

“Shall I ask for a royal pardon?” He chuckles at her indignant glare and tries to kiss her, but she turns aside and squeezes him down below. His head falls back against the shower wall. His cock is proud and thickening in her grip, his breath coming a little quicker as she begins a slow rhythm with her hand.

 

“Be careful now,” she cautions when slick moisture leaks from his tip. Padmé can hardly believe what she is doing to him even as she does it. It requires all her willpower not to simply sink to her knees and worship him with her lips and tongue. Instead she runs two fingers over his slit, feeling his body jerk, and draws them wet and slippery up his length, coating him.

 

Palpatine shudders. Padmé grins. He likes it. She’s sure of it now.

 

“Having trouble with that promise of yours, Chancellor?”

 

“You’d like to think so…” he hisses through clenched teeth.

 

She reaches lower and caresses his smooth, even balls, and he growls. Grinning, Padmé splays her other hand over his chest and taunts, “Do you feel that? So sensitive, so ready to respond to your Queen’s every wish.”

 

He looks down at her. “If you are attempting to arouse me with titillating speech…”

 

She kisses him before he can finish, and the heat sears her to her toes. He is getting more aggressive, trying to take her mouth, but she pulls free and revels in the disappointed snarl that escapes him. “I must be succeeding. I can feel how you want me.”

 

She pauses, thinking, wondering if she should dare, but she is too far in to stop now. In a flash of impulse, she presses herself against him and cants her hips up, allowing his weeping shaft to grind against her covered core. Padmé gasps at the same time he does, their voices mingling in the still steamed air.

 

“Padmé… Your Majesty,” he manages to say between panting breaths. His cock is at full attention, begging for her hands, for more than hands. He is ready even if he won’t admit it.

 

She isn’t. Padmé pulls away, breaking the contact between his straining length and her aching core, smiling at the disappointment in those hooded blue eyes.

 

“So impatient. Good things come to those who honor their monarchs,” she tells him and pumps her hand slowly over the delicate, slickened skin of his manhood.

 

Palpatine takes a deep breath. She admires the shakiness of it even as she looks him over and marvels anew at the wiry muscles and tightly corded body, the almost ethereal pale skin. The Naboo have always admired pale skin; it reminds them of the moon; it is a sign of blessing and beauty from the moon goddess herself, some say.

 

She can believe he has been blessed. She imagines for a moment when she will finally allow him to take her, when those slender hands will spread her thighs wide, perhaps the long and talented digits will prepare her before his eager cock will slide into her and –

 

Padmé comes back to the present with a flinch when he finally groans, and she realizes she has been steady teasing him to a state of hardness that looks very nearly painful. His eyes are closed, his breathing coming in quick, open panting that drips fire into her deepest places. She wants him, every part of her wants him to take her. 

 

She looks over the low wall of the shower stall around the locker room. Still empty, no sign of occupants other than themselves, but the vulnerability of this position leaves her feeling raw and half delirious with pleasure.

 

If anyone walked in, they would see the Chancellor himself, naked and hard under the hands of a Senator, who she muses, would soon be naked as well. She releases him and backs up a step, raising her hands to the back of her chest support and slipping it off over her head.

 

Daringly, she tosses it over the wall, far from their reach, and it lands in the center of the common area. Palpatine looks at her approvingly, his gaze traveling over her pert breasts. She feels her nipples tingle in response, and she barely manages to roll her underwear over her wide hips and wiggle free of them in an enticing shimmy.

 

Naked, she kneels at his feet, feeling the cool wet surface of someone’s previous shower, and grips the trousers and undergarments at his knees. “Step out,” she tells him, voice trembling, and he obediently does. She decides his boots can stay on as she rises, his clothing in her hands, and contemplates her options. Palpatine’s eyes flash to the door of the locker room, hesitating.

 

She sees the look, the uncertainty, and absolutely loves it. When could any woman say she had stripped the Chancellor of the Republic of both clothing and composure? Padmé bites her lip and tosses the trousers the same way as her undergarments.

 

He makes a small sound of protest and starts to move away from the wall, but she shoves him back. “It is my wish you stay here, Chancellor,” she admonishes. “If any enter, they will see a loyal subject pleasing his queen. Pray no one does.”

 

Palpatine studies her as though his cock is not weeping milky tears for her, as though his whole body is not straining to fuck her into screaming bliss. Padmé presses her thighs together to stop the oozing wetness between her legs at that cool look. She wants to break it, break it into flaming heat. She runs a slow hand from her neck down between her breasts, over her navel to dip lightly into her moistened cleft, all within half a meter of him in the small stall. “Do you want me, Chancellor?”

 

He responds to her purr with a faint smile. “Rather, it looks like Your Majesty wants her loyal subject, who is most willing to oblige her wishes.” 

 

“I can see that,” she whispers, eyes caressing down his body.

 

She can’t hold on much longer. She wants that long cock to fill her aching body until she can’t fit any more. She wants him to take her against the shower wall. Suddenly, she gets another idea, and Padmé leans forward to reach behind him, but the head of his cock collides with the juncture between her legs, and they both gasp. Padmé presses closer, wanting to feel nothing more than that hard hot flesh in her, stroking her into oblivion.

 

Palpatine lets her grind over him, groaning softly each time she brings her entrance close enough to touch. Padmé pauses when she has him between her legs, when she can feel his tip probing her shallowly, not quite able to enter.

 

Finally, he must decide he has had enough, because his hands lift and come to rest on her hips, pulling her tightly to him, his length pressing insistent and eager against her slick folds. She lets out a tiny mewling whimper.

 

Her hands slide down his narrow back, marveling at the steel strength she feels under the deceptively soft, aged skin, but when her fingers curl around his buttocks and slide experimentally, admiringly over them and lower down to the space between his slender thighs, he stiffens and withdraws his hands to seize hers, pulling her free with a low growl of warning.

 

Padmé freezes, a little worried by the sudden change in him, and searches his face for meaning. For a split second, his eyes are cool, icy blue, unlike anything she has ever seen in her trusted mentor, and then the amused warmth is back in force.

 

“Aren’t you a wild one?” he chuckles at her paralyzed expression. “A dirty one. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

 

He reaches behind him, and she yelps in shock as the shower activates and sprays her oversensitive flesh with cool water.

 

Her nipples harden into tight nubs at the cold rush, and then his hands are everywhere on her body, and – ahhhh, all the gods above! – his thin, all too capable lips too! Padmé forgets that she ever wanted to control this moment, and she is carried away in the warming stream of water and tongue and slender fingers, falling into his arms and he’s pushing her up against the wall and she can’t think...  

 

She doesn’t want to think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are heating up between our two Naboo politicians now. Hopefully nobody comes in and interrupts their fun... 
> 
> Random headcanon thoughts:  
> 1\. I've got this thing for exploring the psychological political and royal connections between Padme and Palpatine. He's noble by birth, and she's former royalty, and she was his Queen, but she was a little snip of a woman when she was, and he was her mentor and a friend (and he's a big bad Sith Lord but she has no kriffin' clue), and that's got to play a role in their stuffy Naboo heads to some extent. xD  
> 2\. Also, I really love to wonder how much Naboo's religion plays a role in these characters' lives. Padme keeps statues of Shiraya in her home in the EU, and I sincerely doubt Palps believes in any such nonsense, but Naboo's culture is so rigid, I imagine their religion plays a large part and I'm positive he's had to partake in some interesting rituals.  
> 3\. I kind of want to take this series seriously AU... maybe even give it something of a plot. *gasp*


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things reach a dramatic conclusion, and then Padme has too much time to think. It's dangerous, this route her mind is taking her.

Palpatine places both of his hands on her head, and before Padmé can stop him, her elaborate ties are undone, and her long hair is tumbling over his open wet palms, quickly soaking up the water that flows over them. Her hair?  He likes her hair…? He leans close and lays thin lips on the corner of her mouth, down over her jawline, down the arch of her throat, hands fisting gently near her roots, and the warm wet pressure is something simply lovely.

 

She sighs, and there is nothing more to say until he ups the game, like he always does.

 

Palpatine draws his tongue over the ridge of her collarbone, jerking a soft cry from her, and looks at her for a long moment, and Padmé squirms with delight as he lets go of her thick locks and strokes his fingertips down her slick sides.

“Wet all over now, at least on the outside,” he chuckles. “The question is, are you wet enough inside, Your Majesty?”

 

Pure lip service, no more deference. She fooled herself to think she could master him in this game. She’s getting all wet, all right, and then she’s getting his firm cock too as he rams it into her aching cunt without hesitation.

 

“Shiraya’s Rise!” Padmé gasps, her hips bucking up, her thighs closing wetly around his narrow hips as he pushes into her, earning a low gasping chuckle from him.

 

“The holy men would be very disappointed in you,” he purrs in her ear. “Invoking the Moon Goddess while fucking in a gymnasium locker room. Not very respectful, is it?”

 

“If you bothered to listen to the Passages, you’d know she governs the tides of our sexuality,” Padmé hisses back, barely audible over the splatter of the warm water against their joined bodies. She really doesn’t want to think about Shiraya right now…

 

“Hm…. And does she approve of us?” he asks, grinning and shifting his grip on her waist. She slides deeper on his cock and moans at the heat of him, _clenches_ around the full feeling between her legs.

 

He nips at her neck, grinding almost leisurely into her. Every movement becoming more languid, like a great tusk cat that knows its prey is helpless. Padmé realizes, stunned: he is toying with her! Distracting her with talks of Naboo, and truly, he will need to repent for that near blasphemy, but there isn’t time for that right now.

 

She tries to take back the reins of control by lifting over him, but his hands are still on her waist and he has pinned her between him and the shower wall, hot water sluicing through the cracks between their tightly pressed bodies like electric currents. 

 

“You are being belligerent, Chancellor,” she whispers, struggling to maintain the fantasy as his tip touches up against a place inside her that makes her want to wantonly squirm and writhe on him, royal dignity aside.

 

There is something frightening in that devilish smile. “I am only seeking to fulfill Your Majesty’s command. I can feel you growing close.”

 

Padmé opens her mouth to protest, but he pulls her off his hard cock in one swift motion, faster than she ever would have expected of him, and presses her to the wall, face first. He is rougher and stronger than she expected too, and this lights a fire in her she doesn’t have time to analyze. Padmé moans at the loss of contact; her cunt flushes wet and open for him, throbbing with waves of desire that leave her legs boneless.

 

The roar of the water fills her ears. His fingers slide up her ribs and curve over the slick globes of her breasts. Teeth nip playfully at her shoulder. Too much...

 

And then he is covering her body with his, sliding between her sensitive folds, and she knows she is whimpering his name over and over, but this is torture!

 

He makes it a thousand times worse, leaning close to her ear as she clings to the low wall – like he leaned in to her in the Senate chamber a decade ago, except this time she’s staring over a shower wall at a closed but unlocked door and his cock is sinking into her – and he is whispering, “Is my Queen ready to come?”

 

She desperately wants to taunt him one… last… time… “S-serve us well, and perhaps you will earn your own reward. Not be-before!”

 

“So be it,” he hisses and pumps his hips forward, and Padmé bites on her lip to muffle a scream of delight.

 

And then she _does_ almost scream, because the door silently swishes open, its motion sensors registering the close passing of a diplomat. Padmé freezes in horror, hands digging into the wall. She recognizes the man as he turns in the hall to wait for his companions impatiently, a minor senator from the Outer Rim. His eyes pass blankly over her face as though he does not see her. _How by the Goddess did he miss us??_ Laughter wafts in.

 

Behind her, Palpatine has also paused, but she can still feel him buried deep in her. There is a faint movement behind her as he shifts, and thank the gods! The door slides shut as the diplomat moves on with his comrades, none of them sparing a glance for the nearly empty locker room.

 

Padmé can breathe again, and then she can’t, because he is suddenly driving into her in hard strong strokes, and the fear and arousal and physiological stress of nearly being discovered are sending her over the edge into a lake of tumbling bliss, burning down into her core.

 

True to his word, he comes only as she is peaking on her own high, and the rush of his hot fluids sends her body into spasms of sheer, glorious sensation. She feels so alive! Too alive! Like she is more than just Padmé Amidala, like there is something in her clawing to be free and live free and just be, and she stops trying to understand what is happening to her…

 

Once she gets her feet under her again, she notices that one of his hands has slid down to her smooth belly, caressing her, almost prodding her curiously with his slender, capable splayed fingers. Something flutters just below her navel in response. She moans; she can feel a trickle of his slickness oozing down one of her thighs.

 

How can he make her feel like this? So dirty, so worshipped, so sensual?

 

His touch becomes more insistent, as though he is feeling for something, and Padmé suppresses a tiny giggle. “It doesn’t reach that far at this angle,” she gasps, “even though it feels like it.”

 

She reaches to twine her fingers through his and pull his hand to her chest.

 

They fit together perfectly, pressed between her small breasts.

 

But he doesn’t respond to her attempt at flattery, and she twists to try to see his face.

 

Is that… wonder? Not on him, not surprise in his eyes. But concentration there is, and lazy pleasure. He slides limp out of her and lowers his lips to kiss her shoulder, evoking a shudder Padmé can’t stop.

 

Doesn’t want to stop.

 

With his free hand, he caresses her gently, rubbing her clean under the fresh spray of water until a pleasant tingle runs through her veins and twitches between her hips, but for his part he seems dedicated only to the task at hand, his cock soft and unimposing. A servant doting upon his beloved queen, nothing more.    

 

_I want more…_

 

When he finishes cleaning underneath, he turns her around to face him again, dips his delicate fingers through the soft hairs in her nest of curls, and washes her in the water flow. Padmé tips her chin back, sighs at the lovely sensation, and wonders blushing red to the ceiling how long he takes to recover.

 

So soothing… she could stay like this forever. Padmé can feel him starting to pull back, and impulsively she reaches out for his shoulders and pulls him close instead.

 

They stare at each other, centimeters away, water plowing over their shoulders. The intense sexual heat is dissipating like steam in the air, leaving them with something both lighter and heavier, something that she can’t define and it worries the politician in her, not to have an answer ready.

 

It must bother him too. “Padmé…?” he questions, her title – their game – sliding away in his uncertainty.

 

For a moment, Padmé can’t answer as she examines his solemn face. This isn’t a game anymore. This _something_ is frightening, alluring. It’s not lips and tongues and cocks and cunts, she realizes with a jolt; it’s eyes sparking and gentle hands squeezing together. Togetherness. Openness. Maybe he isn’t open to her, but she is to him right _now_ , and this moment is suspended in time.

 

_Does he…?_ She kisses him. Slow. Cautious. Tender.

 

It’s unlike anything they’ve shared before. No rushing, but a hesitant leaning in, a brushing of lips as if frightened they will hurt each other. No hunger but plenty of confusion and mingled breath as they try to catch it together. Padmé wonders if he’s having as much trouble as she is, because it feels like all oxygen in the room is fleeing down the shower drain.

 

Finally she pulls back her hands and her head and smiles at her former mentor, and somehow Padmé can’t see him in that light anymore when he offers a tentative smile back, like he’s never used a smile like that before. Not for the first time, Padmé wonders how many lovers he has taken before her, if he has ever actually loved anyone, and she shivers. What a thought… Palpatine is her lover now, something far more primal and intimate than their friendship ever had been, though they had been close even for Naboo.

 

Lover…

 

And then Padmé freezes in horror as her dazed mind grinds into gear, hand dropping from his and leaning loosely in his arms. _Anakin!_ What has she done?! The satiated delight is slipping away in the pit of her core to be replaced with cold despair. She can see his burning eyes in her mind, so bright and brilliant compared to the ones gazing inscrutably at her now. So wounded.

 

Padmé groans. What has gotten into her?

 

She has done it again. It doesn’t matter that maybe he’s found his own release on some far away planet with some local woman. It doesn’t matter that months have passed without seeing him, without even knowing if he is actually still alive, although she thinks she would be able to feel it if he were dead. She has betrayed his trust like she promised she never would again, and yet here she stands with Palpatine, looking into his pale eyes like they have all the time in the world. Like only they exist.

 

But they don’t.

 

Because _Anakin_.

 

Palpatine must sense her mood, because he reaches behind him with a sigh and shuts the water off. The room echoes with the last of the water as it shuffles down the drain and drips from their bodies onto the smooth tiles.

 

Padmé finds herself trembling as the air strikes her rapidly cooling skin. He notices with a lifted eyebrow and squeezes past her to stride unconcerned to the common area, where he produces two large, thick senatorial towels from the communal storage. She waits behind the shower wall, shy and embarrassed and ashamed.

 

When he returns, he hands her one of the towels as though they are at an opera’s opening night and he is bringing her a drink, as though they aren’t both naked and fresh from fucking each other senseless. He is so formal that she is grateful for it; otherwise, she might not be able to face him like this and rub the towel over her pebbled skin. She can barely face herself and what she has done today.

 

She loves Anakin.

 

This is her friend, who is only her friend, who can only ever be her friend.

 

She doesn’t… She can’t…

 

Padmé swallows the sudden lump in her throat when Palpatine looks at her, towel tightly fixed around his narrow waist. Is he sad? Wistful? She can’t tell.

 

“Are you well, m’lady?” he asks, his baritone a soft, concerned rumble.

 

Offering a shaky nod, Padmé pulls the towel hard around her curves. “I must, must apologize, Chancellor. Again, I-I don’t know what has come over me today. I only intended to-”

 

And she stops, clacking her teeth together hard enough to hurt.

 

After all she has done, she refuses to lie to him about this, at least. She has lied enough.

 

“I… have no excuse. I hope you will forgive me.”

 

Even though the last part is muttered straight into the floor, he must hear her, for his hand stretches out and lifts her chin with a firmness that she has always come to expect from him. “Padmé, there is nothing to forgive.”

 

She ignores the sudden explosion of warmth in her chest. There is something strange and dark snapping in his eyes when she dares to look at him. Does he think this is his fault, when she is the one who has come to him both times?

 

“There is too much to forgive that can be said right now, I’m afraid,” she whispers, begging him with her wide brown eyes to let her go, please let her go.

 

He does, backing off slowly, his boots squelching with the wetness, and she thinks bizarrely that he really should have taken them off if he wanted a shower. Shaking the random, irreverent thought away, Padmé looks over the shower wall at her clothing pooled haphazardly on the floor of the common area.

 

“W-Would you please, Chancellor?”

 

Palpatine nods silently, and if he is amused or confused by her sudden reluctance he does not show it, going from piece to piece and collecting them for her. Then, as she dresses behind the low wall, he dresses beyond it. The silence has changed again, this time to an uncomfortable awareness of each other.

 

That this was wrong.  

 

That they still want each other.

 

Padmé tugs the last article of her clothing into place, and with it, the cool reserve of her office. Her clothes are her armor, protecting her from this unfamiliar and alien sensation. She needs to retreat and consider her options. When she dares to look again, Palpatine is waiting near the door, completely dressed and wearing his office as well.

 

It makes this easier, but only marginally. “Chancellor,” she dips her head and moves out from behind the shower wall.

 

He stops her before she can make it out of the locker room, and when she looks at him questioningly, he touches her hair. Her wet, loose, post-fucked hair. “Oh,” Padmé flushes, realizing how close she came to awkward questions and endless press scrutiny.

 

She scurries back to the dryers on the far wall, knowing that it will take a moment to get her hair dried and remade to a semblance of normalcy. While it is drying, she remembers…

 

“Thank you,” she says, turning to look at him.

 

He is gone.

 

As though he never was there.

 

But she can still feel the cooling evidence of his ardor between her legs, and Padmé swallows a faint smile, berating herself, and turns back to her task. Now is not the time to be thinking of this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Oh oh... They're cooling off and starting to think about things, now that there's something there that wasn't there before. Padme has got some serious issues to take care of now.  
> 2\. And... a plot may be developing, yikes! xD   
> 3\. I had a little extra time to write this week. :D 
> 
> What'd you guys think? Yay? Nay? I love your feedback. :D


End file.
